The Talking Cure
by whirlyite
Summary: When you are forced to listen in silence, you might just learn to listen well. And sometimes you find out things you never knew. Takes place after the events of S6E6 "The Gestapo Takeover". Rating changed to T for graphic imagery.
1. Chapter 1

**THE TALKING CURE**

**Chapter 1 – The Silent Treatment**

"_I have often regretted my speech, never my silence." - Publilius Syrus, Maxims_

Wilson shook his head slowly as he packed his flashlight back into his small medical case. _First the Gestapo and now this! _he thought to himself. What he said out loud was, "Yep, it's exactly as I thought." He gazed at his disgruntled patient and sighed. "You, Peter Newkirk, have a classic case of laryngitis."

"Really?" chuckled an amused LeBeau before he caught the withering glare his English friend cast his way. He deliberately stifled his laughter and tried to make amends. "Pardon, mon ami."

"Ain't…funny…," rasped Newkirk. "Ohhh…." He grimaced and reached up to gently massage his throat, trying to ease the pain caused by those two words.

Wilson sighed again. "See? I told you that your throat is inflamed and tender. You're also running a low grade fever. You must've strained your vocal cords with all that practicing you did to imitate that Gestapo General."

"General Mueller," put in Carter.

Wilson wasn't impressed. "Yeah, him. I prescribe strict bed rest for the next three days and no talking at all for at least the next week." He moved towards the barracks door and turned back. "Oh, and another thing. There is to be absolutely no smoking until I tell you that your throat is healed. And don't think I won't be watching either."

The Englishman's eyes widened when he heard that. "Wot…?" he croaked as he sank back onto the bunk in shocked disbelief_. Cor,_ _I'm goin' to go right barmy if I can't 'ave me ciggies!_ How could this have happened? He'd used his talent for imitation many times before with no problems. But then, this particular General had a very low, gravelly voice that proved a bit more abrasive on his throat than usual.

Two days earlier, whilst on the phone with the Gestapo Major Strauss, he had been forced to raise his voice in order to intimidate Strauss into not checking further into the dodgy plan he as the ersatz 'General Mueller' had just outlined. He thought he felt something give way when he finally shouted "Now, any more questions Strauss?" and had quickly drained a glass of water to try to ease the discomfort after he rang off. Apparently that had not been enough. He had awoken this morning with a painfully raw sore throat and no voice to speak of.

Colonel Hogan stepped up to intercept Wilson before he left the barracks. "I'm going to make that an order," he said. He looked around the barracks. "That goes for everybody else as well. No smoking inside the barracks until Newkirk recovers."

Wilson nodded his satisfaction and took his leave. His patient scrunched his eyes shut and threw an arm across his face in despair.

As LeBeau bustled about to prepare a cup of hot tea for his despondent friend, Kinch tapped his CO on the shoulder and drew him towards the opposite end of the barracks.

"Colonel, you know this isn't going to be easy, do you?"

Colonel Hogan grimaced and nodded. "You read my mind Kinch." He glanced back over at the figure lying motionless on the top bunk. "It's bad enough he can't talk. I don't know what we're going to do if he can't smoke."

Schultz chose that moment to enter the barracks and the resultant blast of cold air instantly nullified what little effect the stove had on the temperature inside the common room. That simply wouldn't do, since Newkirk's bunk was right next to the door. The Colonel shook his head and headed over towards the stove. He stuffed a couple of pieces of wood inside to try to warm the room back up.

Schultz unsuccessfully tried to shake the cold off. "Lieber Gott! It is cold this morning!" he whined.

The Colonel chuckled as he answered, "Always a master of the obvious, huh Schultz?"

The German guard ignored the playful insult and glanced up at Newkirk's bunk before he approached LeBeau. He pulled a small jar from his pocket and held it out to the Frenchman. "Here is some honey, it will help soothe his throat. How is he doing?"

LeBeau snatched the jar from Schultz' hand. "Merci Schultzie! You can see for yourself, Pierre is not happy right now."

"When is he ever happy?" wondered Schultz.

"When he's winning at poker," answered Carter. "Or any other card game for that matter." He got up from his bunk to retrieve the communal deck of cards from the table and then walked back to address his English friend. "It looks like we'll be playing a lot of cards Peter."

Newkirk didn't respond. The Colonel moved to draw Carter away from the bunk with a whispered, "Not now Andrew. They'll be plenty of time for cards later."

Carter shrugged and sat down at the table where he began laying out the cards for a game of solitaire.

Schultz leaned in to whisper to Hogan, "If there is anything I can get to help, you will tell me?"

"Thanks Schultz, we will." Schultz nodded and left quickly, trying to keep the cold air entering the barracks to a minimum.

LeBeau handed the Colonel a steaming mug of hot tea and gestured with his head at the upper bunk. The Colonel approached Newkirk's bunk and reached to grasp his shoulder. He shook it gently before he said, "Come on Peter. You're not going to get better sleeping by this door. It's not as cold in my quarters as it is in here. You'll recover quicker if you're warmer."

"Ye-," Newkirk began to answer and then swallowed painfully. He ended up nodding at his commanding officer instead.

Carter jumped up from the table and helped his English friend as he slowly climbed down from his bunk. LeBeau draped an extra blanket across Newkirk's shoulders as he followed Colonel Hogan into his quarters. When Kinch pulled the door closed after them, Carter sighed loudly.

"What is wrong André?" asked LeBeau.

"Oh boy, are we in for it!" said Carter.

LeBeau nodded, "Oui, we are indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Battening the Hatches**

_"If you're in a bad situation, don't worry it'll change. If you're in a good situation, don't worry it'll change." - John A. Simone, Sr._

Two of the three men currently in the Colonel's quarters wholeheartedly shared Carter and LeBeau's foreboding but wisely kept it to themselves. Kinch helped Newkirk settle into the lower bunk whilst the Colonel pulled an extra blanket off the top one. He handed it to Newkirk.

"Here you go Peter. I want you to bundle up and keep yourself as warm as possible."

"Sorr-sorry…sir…," whispered Newkirk. "Didn't…mean…to…."

"No talking Peter!" said Kinch. "Remember Joe's instructions? I don't think he was kidding. Keep quiet so you don't do any more damage."

Newkirk nodded grudgingly as Kinch softened his stern words by gently grasping him at the shoulder.

The Colonel crouched down onto one knee beside the lower bunk. "It's not your fault Peter, you were carrying out my orders. Don't worry, we'll figure out some way for you to communicate. Now I want you to drink this tea then try to get some rest, okay?"

Newkirk took the mug and slowly sipped the warm, sweet liquid, grateful for its' soothing effect on his painful throat. After he finished it he handed the empty mug off to Kinch, yawning whilst he did so. As he hadn't really slept well at all the previous night, it didn't take long for him to drift off.

Colonel Hogan and Kinch quietly made their exit and moved to sit at the common table, where they were soon joined by Carter and LeBeau.

"Fellas, we need to figure out a plan while Newkirk's asleep. First order of business is to come up with an alternative method of communication he can use so he won't be tempted to speak." The Colonel looked at each of his men as he spoke, inviting their ideas.

"I know! Sign language!" Carter blurted out.

"Say what Andrew?" asked Kinch.

"Sign language! My cousin Angry Rabbit Who Has Thorn in Cottontail and I used to talk to each other that way all the time when we were kids." He began gesticulating wildly to illustrate his idea. "It's real easy! You learn the signs for each word and then you…."

LeBeau rolled his eyes heavenward before he cut Carter off in mid-gesture. "André, the situation is already bad enough, is it not?"

"Louis is right Little Deer, I don't think we want to do that," said the Colonel.

"Why not Colonel? I'll teach him! It'll be great because he'll have to use his hands and that'll keep his mind off not being able to smoke!""

Hogan sighed, "I really don't want to go into the details. Let's just say I don't think it's a good idea, okay?"

"Jeez, I'm just trying to help!" huffed Carter.

Kinch reached over to pat Carter on the back. "We know Andrew and we appreciate it." He looked over at the Colonel and said, "I think Andrew's right to want to keep Peter's hands occupied since he can't smoke right now. How about if he could write on something?"

"Good idea, Kinch. What can we use? Paper?"

"Well, we'd probably need more paper than we have on hand right now. Joe did tell him not to talk for at least the next week."

Hogan nodded, "You're right. What else could we use? Something reusable?"

"How about a chalkboard?" suggested Carter.

"Now you're talking Andrew!" said Kinch. "And I know exactly what we can use. The Krauts are re-roofing the kitchen building and there's a stack of slate roofing tiles over by the mess hall. We could split one in half lengthwise to make a writing slate."

"That's perfect Kinch!" The Colonel rose and moved to stand between Carter and LeBeau, then leaned down to drape a hand atop each of their shoulders. "Why don't you two secure us a few of those tiles?"

"Oui mon Colonel!"

"Will do sir!" Carter thought for a moment, then asked, "What about chalk?"

"I'll take care of that Andrew my boy," said the Colonel. "Just get over to the mess hall and get us those tiles. We're going to need them!"

"Yes sir!" nodded Carter. He and LeBeau got up, grabbed their coats and left.

The Colonel turned to his XO. "Kinch, would you mind keeping close in case Peter wakes up? I'll be back in a few minutes."

Kinch nodded, "No problem Colonel."

"Thanks!" The Colonel strode out the door in search of Schultz. He didn't have far to go as the barracks guard was hurrying across the compound on his way to the Kommandatur.

"Schultz!"

"Colonel Hogan? What are you doing out in this cold?"

"We've got a problem."

"Another one!?" The German guard's eyes widened in surprise.

Hogan shook his head, "No, the same one. You said we were to tell you if we needed anything."

"Ja," agreed Schultz warily. "I did say that."

"We need some chalk."

"Chalk? Was ist das?"

"You know, what you use to write on a slate? We called them chalkboards when I was in school."

"Oh die Tafel!"

"Right. Here's the story. Since Newkirk isn't supposed to be talking for at least the next week, we thought he could use a slate to write on instead. We've got the slate; all we need is chalk." As he spoke, he slowly eased around to Schultz' opposite side so that the German guard would automatically turn to face him, thus preventing him from observing LeBeau and Carter as they helped themselves to the slate roofing tiles.

"What do you say Schultz? It would sure make it easier on all of us but especially you." The Colonel reached out to lay a hand on Schultz' shoulder.

"On me? How?"

"Well, let's assume you refuse to get us the chalk. Newkirk can't communicate with us very well and he begins talking again. He completely ruins his voice and won't be able to speak for the rest of his life."

"And that is a bad thing how?" snickered Schultz.

Hogan assumed an exaggerated expression of shock. "You can't mean that Schultz! You know Newkirk. If he can't talk, he'll go crazy. He'll make up his mind to get back home to England and no one will be able to stop him. He will successfully escape and Klink's record will be ruined. Before you know it, it's good-bye Stalag 13 and hello to the Russian Front for both you and the Kommandant!"

Schultz' mouth dropped open as the Colonel shook his head sadly.

"And all because you wouldn't get us a measly box of chalk." Hogan sighed and held out his hand as if to shake Schultz'. "It was nice knowing you Schultz. Drop us a letter every once in a while if you can."

"N-n-no...Colonel Hogan!" Schultz whimpered. "I will get you all the chalk the Engländer needs! My nephew Wolfie has plenty of chalk. I will go tonight as soon as I am off duty! Tell Newkirk to stay where he is and to keep quiet, ja?"

The Colonel smiled. "I knew we could count on you Schultz!"

* * *

Kinch nudged the door to the Colonel's quarters open as quietly as possible to check on his English friend. _Still asleep, thank goodness_, he thought to himself. He closed the door and went to pour himself a cup of tepid coffee as he awaited the return of his comrades.

Carter and LeBeau were the first to arrive, with Carter supporting LeBeau as he staggered through the door. LeBeau immediately began unloading the heavy slate tiles from beneath his coat.

"Mon dieu, these are cold!" he exclaimed as he laid the tiles on the table.

Kinch helped him slide the tiles onto the table. "This is great Louis! These tiles needed to be warmed up so they won't shatter when we split them."

LeBeau shook his head in mock sing-song fashion. "Merci Kinch! Now I need to be warmed up!"

"I don't doubt it!" laughed Kinch.

They had just spread all of the tiles onto the table top when the Colonel came back in.

"We'll have all the chalk we need by tomorrow morning! Schultz will bring it before roll call."

"We'll have these tiles split by then Colonel," replied Kinch. He gestured to Carter. "Andrew, let's take these down into the tunnel and work on them."

Carter nodded and followed Kinch as he headed over to the bunk entrance to the tunnel, each with a slate in hand.

Colonel Hogan turned to his French Corporal. "Louis, what are your plans for nursing our voiceless Englishman back to health?"

LeBeau thought a moment then replied, "I still have some of grand-mère's balm. I thought I could use that with a warm compress on his throat along with hot tea with honey and warm soup."

The Colonel nodded, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds good. What's going to happen when he begins feeling the effects of not being able to smoke?"

LeBeau shrugged. "I wish I could tell you mon Colonel. Unfortunately, I cannot see the future."

"You're right," sighed Hogan. "We'll just have to wait and see. I guess we're about as prepared as we're going to be."

"Oui," nodded LeBeau. _I only hope it is enough!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – Red Sky at Morning**

"_You learn to know a pilot in a storm." - Lucius Annaeus Seneca_

Kinch and Carter paused at the radio table on their way to Carter's lab at the far end of the tunnel; Baker glanced up as they stood in front of him.

"Thanks for spelling me on radio duty Richard," said Kinch. "The Colonel's kept me hopping lately on special assignments for London."

"No sweat man, I need the practice. How's Peter doing?"

"Sleeping right now," replied Kinch.

Baker noticed the slate tiles each man carried and pointed at them. "What are those for? What are you guys doing?"

Carter answered, "We're gonna split these slate tiles so we can use them as chalkboards!"

At the puzzled look on Baker's face, Kinch added, "We had to figure out a way for Peter to communicate since Joe told him not to talk for at least the next week." He gestured with the tile. "Say, you don't happen to have an old family remedy for laryngitis, do you? Speak now or forever hold your peace!"

Baker chuckled and shook his head. "Sorry, not that I can think of."

Kinch laughed as well, "If you get any ideas, let me know! C'mon Andrew, let's get these tiles split!"

* * *

The insistent burning pain that increased exponentially each time he swallowed finally nagged his brain back to an unwilling consciousness and Newkirk awoke with his tongue pasted to the roof of his mouth. _Ugh!_ _H__ow did me mouth get so dry? _Even though the room was dark, he could see that there was a cup of what he hoped was water sitting atop the stool beside the bunk. He grabbed it and gulped the tepid liquid down greedily, desperate to rid his mouth of the uncomfortably scratchy sensation of coarse-grained sandpaper.

LeBeau had been checking on Newkirk every few hours throughout the entire day and decided to take one last look-in before lights out. He entered the room silently, then spoke out upon noticing that his English friend had awoken. "Oh Pierre! You are awake!"

"Louis…so…thirsty…," Newkirk whispered painfully as he held out the empty cup in LeBeau's direction.

"Do not speak mon ami! Do you not remember what Joe told you? I will be right back." LeBeau took the cup, left to refill it and then returned to hand it to Newkirk.

"Are you hungry?" asked LeBeau after Newkirk quickly drained the cup. "Would you like some warm soup?"

Newkirk thought about it for a moment, then nodded. He grimaced as he felt the stirrings of a massive headache directly behind his eyes. _What the 'ell is wrong with me now?_

LeBeau noticed his obvious discomfort and asked, "What is wrong? Remember, do not speak! Show me!"

Newkirk raised his hands to simultaneously massage both temples.

"Ah, I see, you have a headache. I will bring you some aspirin with your soup, oui?"

Newkirk nodded again, slowly this time, trying not to aggravate the steadily increasing throbbing of his head as he continued to massage his temples. He closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them when he heard someone walk into the room.

"How are you feeling Peter?" Kinch gestured for whoever was behind him to come on into the Colonel's quarters. Carter stepped into the room and smiled at his English friend as Kinch continued speaking. "Louis said you have a headache."

Newkirk dipped his head once, then closed his eyes again as he continued to massage his temples.

"He's warming up some soup and sent us ahead with the aspirin. Here you go." Kinch handed the tablets to Newkirk, then turned to Carter. "Andrew, do you have the water?"

"Right here Kinch!" Carter handed a mug to Kinch, who in turn handed it off to Newkirk. The Englishman downed the aspirin in one gulp then finished the rest of the water off. He nodded his thanks as he handed the empty mug back to Kinch.

"Okay buddy. Hope that helps. Louis will be back in shortly with the soup. We'll see you in the morning." Kinch headed out, followed by Carter.

"Yeah, we'll see you in the morning Peter. It's almost time for lights out."

Newkirk raised his hand in a half-hearted wave to acknowledge their departure. _Bloody Nora! I feel awful!_ He desperately hoped that the aspirin would kick in soon, as the headache was becoming nearly unbearable. His stomach growled loudly and he wondered where on earth LeBeau had gotten off to.

The wait only seemed longer due to his ever-growing hunger atop the pounding headache. LeBeau soon bustled into the room with a bowl of soup. "Here you are, Pierre! It is not too terribly hot, so you should be able to drink it."

"Ta…," grunted Newkirk.

LeBeau rolled his eyes in frustration. "Pierre, how many times must I tell you? DO NOT SPEAK!"

Newkirk busied himself with the soup and ignored his French friend. He welcomed the warm broth's soothing effect on his throat yet was surprised to find himself feeling slightly nauseated when he finished. He chalked it up to the fact that his stomach had been completely empty as he settled back into the bunk.

"Do you need anything else mon ami?" asked LeBeau as he took the empty bowl from Newkirk's hands.

Newkirk shook his head slightly and buried his face into the pillow, hoping against hope not to have to endure another sleepless night due to this headache.

"We will be checking on you throughout the night so do not worry." LeBeau gently patted his English friend on the back. "Try to get some more sleep. Good night."

* * *

Just before roll call the next morning, Carter opened the door a bare crack to scope out the compound; he shut it quickly then hurried to get dressed. "Uh oh," he murmured.

"What is wrong André?"

"The sky is orange and red!"

"And?"

Kinch answered LeBeau's query. "You've never heard that old weather saying? You know, 'Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight?'"

"Oh oui! Rouge le soir, bel espoir, Rouge le matin, de la pluie en chemin."

Kinch shouldered himself into his jacket as he replied, "Right, so you know that a red sky at night usually means fine, clear weather and a red sky in morning usually means rain or bad weather is coming."

"Mon Dieu! So on top of everything else, we will all have to stay inside the barracks?" He startled and turned as the Colonel laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's hope not Louis!" Hogan looked at each of his men and said, "Fellas, I suggest we all get down on our knees and pray that won't be the case because I think we'll all be at each other's throats before it's all over!"

Schultz came in the door, obviously taking pains to be as quiet as possible. "Roll call boys!" he whisper-shouted. He gestured to the Colonel and handed him a small box. "Colonel Hogan, here is the chalk I promised to get from my nephew Wolfie."

"Thanks Schultz, you're a life saver!"

"As long as you make sure that the Engländer stays put! Now I must check to see that he is still in your quarters Colonel. I am sorry, but the Kommandant insists."

"I understand Schultz," replied the Colonel as he led the German guard across the common room to his quarters. "But try to keep as quiet as possible, he's still asleep."

Schultz nodded and very gently opened the door. He stuck his head in to see that Newkirk was indeed in the bottom bunk and asleep. He backed up, closing the door softly as he did so.

"Satisfied, Schultz?" asked the Colonel.

Schultz nodded happily and headed back towards the barracks door. "Come along boys, please? I would like to finish roll call before it begins to rain!"

"Rain?" groaned LeBeau.

"I told you!" said Carter.

"C'mon fellas, let's get it over with!" The Colonel helped Schultz herd the men outside. "Be prepared for some heavy duty prayers when we get back inside!"

* * *

The last thing he remembered was a tremendous explosion followed by nothing. He was jerked back to consciousness by blood-red flashes of light followed by ear-splitting concussions which blasted scorching hot air into his face followed by the slap of icy-frigid cold air. His throat seized up and he began choking as he frantically sucked in the caustic air, which was heavily laden with the pungent yet sickly sweet detritus of spent cordite. The frighteningly opposing sensations overwhelmed him as he tumbled arse over teakettle into the pitch black void. Thankfully he fell fairly quickly, leaving the deadly terror of the ack-ack far above. He finally recovered his senses enough to desperately fumble for and pull his ripcord. He prayed that he hadn't delayed too long and braced himself for a grievously shattering end. The bone rattling jolt of the harness as it snapped tautly against his chest made him scream out loud in agony; he'd obviously done some serious damage to his ribs.

He bolted awake, disoriented and nauseated from the memory of the heart-stopping free fall. Completely confused as to where he was, he vaguely remembered waking up bruised and battered in the Dulag's spartan infirmary with his ribs so tightly bound he could barely breathe. He looked about fearfully, desperately trying to remember where he was.

_Oh, right, the Colonel's quarters! _He swiped both hands at the perspiration dripping down his face. _ Cor, I 'aven't dreamt about being shot down in ages!_

His confusion unexpectedly segued into anger as he remembered why he was here in Colonel Hogan's bunk instead of his own out in the common room with the rest of his mates. He collapsed back onto the pillow with a groan and then sat back up immediately as a huge clap of thunder shook the entire building.

The door opened and LeBeau tentatively poked his head in. He withdrew for a moment and then walked on in, followed by Carter, Kinch and Colonel Hogan.

The Frenchman noticed immediately that his English friend was out of sorts. He set the tray he carried onto the stool beside the bunk and leaned down to ask, "What is wrong Pierre?"

Newkirk shook his head slowly, unwilling to share the real reason behind his confusion. He pointed up to the ceiling, hoping that his friends would jump to the conclusion he wanted them to.

"You mean that clap of thunder woke you up?" asked Carter.

Newkirk nodded in relief and then tried to change the subject by gesturing at the tray LeBeau had brought in.

"Ah yes! I have brought you breakfast, some hot tea and porridge."

Newkirk shook his head and grunted, "W-want..."

Carter stepped forward before LeBeau exploded in irritation at Newkirk's continued efforts to speak. "Hang on Louis. Here Peter, use this." He handed his friend a square of slate, a stick of chalk and a handkerchief.

Newkirk frowned as he took the items from Carter and looked up at him in puzzlement.

"It's a chalkboard Peter! Now you can write instead of trying to talk!"

The Englishman looked at each of his friends in turn before taking the chalk in hand and bending over the slate. He held it up for them to see when he finished.

_Thanks mates!_

"You're welcome buddy!" said Carter. "Although it was actually Kinch's idea."

Newkirk gave a 'thumbs up' to Kinch, who chuckled as he returned the gesture.

LeBeau, relieved at Newkirk's acceptance of the chalkboard, picked up the tray and set it in the Englishman's lap. "Come mon ami! You must eat to keep up your strength!"

Newkirk surveyed the contents of the tray and quickly erased the slate with the handkerchief. When he finished writing, he flipped the slate over so that LeBeau could read it. If it were possible for a chalked message scrawled onto a broken piece of slate to appear plaintive, this one certainly did.

_Coffee? Please?_

LeBeau shook his head as he spoke. "I do not know Pierre. The tea might be better for your throat right now."

Newkirk erased and wrote again. _Please Louis?_

Colonel Hogan decided to take pity on his RAF Corporal and stepped in to intercede on his behalf. "It's okay Louis. Go ahead and let him have just one cup of coffee each morning. We can't take everything away from him, can we?"

A cautious sigh of relief preceded the chalked reply, _Thanks sir!_

"You're welcome Peter."

LeBeau acquiesced with a sigh of his own. "Very well Pierre! Eat your breakfast and I will bring you some coffee!"

Newkirk nodded and took a cautious sip of the warm tea before dipping into the porridge. LeBeau shooed everyone else ahead of him as he made his way out of the room. He stuck his head back inside to say, "I will make a fresh pot of coffee for you mon ami!"

Satisfied with the prospect of a fresh cup of coffee, Newkirk fell to his breakfast ravenously. He didn't understand why on earth he was so hungry and impatiently waited for LeBeau to return with the coffee so he could ask for another portion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – From Simmer to Boil**

_In silence you can't hide anything as you can in words. - August Strindberg, The Ghost Sonata_

By the time Newkirk finished his breakfast, rain mixed with bits of sleet drummed rhythmically against the barracks' roof, punctuated by roiling waves of thunder. He couldn't help but startle a bit at each wall-rattling blast, as the remnants of his nightmare were still freshly imprinted on his mind.

Thankfully, LeBeau soon returned with a fresh cup of hot coffee; he raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of Newkirk's virtually licked-clean bowl.

"I see you were not very hungry, were you mon ami?" he asked playfully.

Newkirk nodded and held the empty bowl out to his French friend, indicating that he wanted more.

"More? You are asking me for more? I thought you did not like my cooking?"

Newkirk huffed and put the bowl down so he could write, _Not too difficult to muck up porridge, mate._

LeBeau shook his head and began to leave the room as he spoke as if to himself. "Hmmm, perhaps I will take this coffee to the Colonel instead."

A sudden flurry of erasing and writing on the slate produced, _I'm starving Louis. I don't know why. Just please leave the coffee?_

LeBeau gave in and set the mug of coffee on the tray in Newkirk's lap before he took the empty bowl. He gestured with it in his friend's direction as he said, "I will take pity on you this time only because you are ill Pierre."

Newkirk grunted non-committedly as he sipped from the mug. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment as he savored the unusually intense kick of the freshly-made coffee. When he opened his eyes a few moments later LeBeau was gone, apparently having left the room to retrieve more porridge. He took his time finishing the coffee and set the empty mug on the floor.

LeBeau returned momentarily to set a full bowl of porridge onto Newkirk's tray. He plopped down onto the stool beside the bunk and watched contentedly as his friend devoured his food. It didn't take long for LeBeau's trained eye to notice how Newkirk flinched imperceptibly upon each clap of thunder. He remained silent as he pondered and then suddenly realized the true reason behind his English friend's unease.

He judiciously waited until Newkirk finished his porridge before he broached the subject. As he leaned down to remove the tray from Newkirk's lap, he murmured, "You are having the dreams again, are you not mon ami?"

Newkirk suddenly stiffened and his head snapped round to stare at LeBeau in ill-disguised shock. He then recovered himself somewhat and shook his head vehemently.

The Frenchman nodded (a bit patronizingly in Newkirk's opinion) as he straightened and placed the tray on the Colonel's desk. Yes, mused LeBeau, he had definitely struck a nerve; unfortunately, it was an extremely raw nerve that had not been exposed for quite a while. He settled himself back upon the stool and laid a solicitous hand upon Newkirk's shoulder.

"You do not need to hide it from me Pierre. We both know what you went through."

Newkirk's breathing quickened as he furiously scribbled, _I'M_ _NOT HAVING THE DREAMS AGAIN LOUIS!_

"Do not shout at me mon ami! I am right here!"

_BLOODY STORM WOKE ME UP, THAT'S ALL!_

LeBeau felt his anger rising and he managed to get out a barely civil, "If you say so, Pierre."

_I DO SAY SO!_

LeBeau sat for a moment and then reached down to retrieve the empty coffee mug. He tossed it onto the tray as he said, "I only wish to help you Pierre." As there was no answer forthcoming from the agitated Englishman, LeBeau continued, "Very well. You have had your breakfast so I am no longer needed here. Perhaps I should leave you alone, oui?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes at the ceiling in a silent plea for divine intervention. He really did not want to remember, much less discuss any of this and LeBeau's insistence that he do so grated on his rapidly fraying disposition. He winced as he felt his headache returning. _Oh bloody hell!_ he thought. _That's all I need now!_ He chalked an ultimatum, hoping LeBeau would get the message and just get out.

_THEN DO THAT! LEAVE ME ALONE!_

Truly angry now, LeBeau arose to pick up the tray and make a beeline for the door. Just before he reached for the doorknob, he turned to shout, "Tu es têtu comme une bourrique!"

_SAME TO YOU MATE!_

The unexpectedly loud bang of the door slamming startled the men in the common room and every eye turned to barely catch a glimpse of the red blur storming out of the Colonel's quarters.

"Whoa! Slow down there Louis! What's wrong?" Kinch had just come topsides to fetch some fresh coffee for himself and the Colonel. He quickly put the coffee pot back onto the stove and reached his hands out to steady the enraged Frenchman.

"Il déménage complètement!"

_He is totally crazy!_ Kinch chuckled as he ran Louis' exclamation through his mind. He had been waiting for this to happen and he reached to put a supportive arm about LeBeau's shoulders. "C'mon Louis, sit here for a moment and try to calm down."

"Aaaah dégueu! What is the use?" LeBeau threw his hands up as he let Kinch guide him to a seat at the common table. "Such a difficult, ungrateful Englishman! He does not even realize…." LeBeau suddenly trailed off.

"He doesn't realize what Louis?" asked Kinch.

"It is nothing, Kinch. Nothing important."

Kinch had his doubts about that but decided not to press the issue. LeBeau would tell him if it was any of his business. He glanced back at the closed door of Colonel Hogan's quarters. Even though the Colonel was awaiting his return down in the tunnel, he felt this situation needed to be addressed first.

"I'll go talk to him Louis. You wait here."

"Bonne chance Kinch!" muttered LeBeau as Kinch made his way to the Colonel's quarters.

Kinch stood before the door for a moment and then raised his fist to knock once before he announced, "Peter, this is Kinch. I'm coming in." He opened the door to find the Englishman writing on the slate.

_Louis is angry with me._

Kinch looked back at the door, amazed it still hung on its hinges. "I don't doubt it. Apparently you're being a royal pain in the neck."

_Pain? Not me mate._

"Well somebody in this room is and it's certainly not me!"

The Englishman huffed and angrily chalked two stark words. _Not sorry._

"You will be when you get hungry later."

_Hungry now._

"Again? Didn't you just eat?"

Newkirk nodded as he wrote _I can't help it, I'm hungry._

As Newkirk had been without his smokes for nearly 30 hours, Kinch suspected that that was a large part of the reason behind the incessant hunger, as well as his increasingly bad temper. The tapping of the chalk on the slate turned his attention back to Newkirk.

_Did you hear what Louis said before he ran out of the room?_

Kinch laughed, "Oh yes, I heard him all right; he said 'You're as stubborn as a donkey!'"

_Tell him it takes one to know one!_

"I'll let you tell him. I think you two owe each other an apology."

Newkirk sighed heavily. _Not right now Kinch, my head hurts._

"Okay buddy, I know you're not feeling well. Maybe not today but soon all right?"

Newkirk nodded and Kinch tapped him gently on the shoulder. "I've got to get back in the tunnel. We have a mission pending and the Colonel needs me down there. C'mon buddy, just try to get along with Louis, please?"

Newkirk nodded again and Kinch headed out the door in search of Carter, who was sitting at the common table keeping LeBeau company.

"Andrew, would you come here please?"

"Yeah Kinch?" Carter got up and walked over to where Kinch stood.

Kinch put a hand on each of Carter's shoulders and stared directly into his face. "Andrew, I need you to take one for the team. While the Colonel and I get the details sorted out for this pending mission, would you please keep Peter company? Try to keep his mind off of his situation if you can. I also want you to try to run interference between him and LeBeau for right now. I know it's a tall order, but if anyone can do it, you can."

Carter swallowed hard and nodded. He wasn't sure about this but he was willing to give it the old college try.

Kinch glanced back over his shoulder and said, "He needs to rest right now. Give him a few hours, okay?"

Carter nodded, still unsure. "Okay Kinch. I hope he doesn't bite my head off!"

Kinch chuckled. "He just might Andrew, but don't let it throw you off. Newkirk's beginning to seriously feel the effects of not being able to smoke, on top of his injured throat. Cut him a little slack."

"All right Kinch."

"That's my boy! I'll see you guys later." Kinch headed for the bunk entrance to the tunnel and disappeared below ground.

* * *

Later that day, Carter thought a card game would've been the perfect thing to distract his English friend's mind off his increasing troubles. Boy was he ever wrong!

"Uh, it's your play Peter," he reminded Newkirk for the fourth time in as many hands.

Newkirk shook himself out of his daze to give Carter a sour glance before he slapped a card down hard onto the seat of the stool they were using as a makeshift table.

"Are you sure you want to play that card?" asked Carter as he thought to himself, _He sure is off his game!_

Newkirk rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. Carter took it as an ominous sign as he gingerly laid his cards down.

"Okay buddy, calm down. I'm just making sure. Uh, gin!"

Newkirk flung the cards he held onto the floor more in frustration than in disappointment at losing once again. His brain just wouldn't cooperate; it seemed he couldn't get a thought complete through to action to save his life. The mounting anxiety wasn't helping, neither was the still simmering anger at his failure to keep LeBeau from finding out about the recurrence of his nightmare.

"Okay, we won't count those points," Carter nervously murmured as he reached to gather up the cards from the floor. This day wasn't exactly going the way he had hoped. He tried to think of something else to keep his English friend's mind occupied.

Newkirk shoved his slate into Carter's line of sight. _Is there anything to eat?_

"Uh, I don't know Peter, we just ate lunch a couple of hours ago." Carter had been impressed into service as a waiter by LeBeau, who refused to come into the room even though he still prepared Newkirk's meals.

_I know that you twit! I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't hungry would I?_

Carter jumped up, stung by the insult. "All right! I'll go check with Louis! Geez!" He left the room and returned a bit too quickly for Newkirk's taste.

"Louis said he won't have anything ready for you until dinner."

Newkirk slammed the slate down onto the floor with such force it shattered into what appeared to be a thousand shards.

Colonel Hogan and Kinch ran into the room. "What the hell is going on in here?" demanded the Colonel.

Carter's mouth worked soundlessly for nearly a full minute before he finally got out, "Peter's mad because LeBeau doesn't have anything for him to eat right now."

"Right now?" asked the Colonel. "Didn't he just eat a couple of hours ago?"

"Yes sir, he did, but he says he's hungry," replied Carter nervously.

Kinch grasped the Colonel's arm and gently drew him over towards the door. "Peter's beginning to feel the effects of not being able to smoke," he whispered. "Let me handle it Colonel, if you don't mind."

Colonel Hogan nodded in sudden comprehension and went over to the lower bunk. He leaned in and spoke to his RAF Corporal. "Peter, I know you're not feeling well and we're all trying to help as best we can. Please try to help us as well, okay? I'd rather not see a repeat of what just happened here."

Newkirk looked down and heaved a sigh. He made as if to speak but the Colonel cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't try to speak Peter. I'll accept your apology, if that is what you were going to say. It was, wasn't it?"

The Colonel gazed expectantly at his Englishman, who slowly nodded his agreement. The Colonel smiled and jerked his head in Carter's direction. "I believe you owe Andrew an apology as well?"

Newkirk looked at Carter, eyebrows raised in a silent request. Carter smiled as he replied, "It's all right Peter."

"Now how about Louis?" asked the Colonel. "He's the first one you owe an apology to."

Newkirk's face immediately froze into an expressionless mask and he turned to stare at the wall.

Kinch approached the Colonel and said, "I think that one's going to take a bit more time Colonel."

"Well, I suppose two out of three isn't bad," said the Colonel. "I'm going back downstairs. Keep me posted Kinch."

"I will sir. Tell Baker I'll be down in a few minutes."

After the Colonel left the room, Kinch turned to Carter. He shrugged as he surveyed the damage and said, "Well, that's why we made more than one! C'mon Andrew, help me pick up the pieces here."

It didn't take the two of them very long to clear the floor of most of the shattered slate. Carter crouched down onto all fours to ferret out the smaller pieces whilst Kinch went to fetch another whole slate. Despite his acceptance of Newkirk's apology, Carter still couldn't comprehend why his English friend was so agitated. "Gosh Peter! Why'd you have to go and do that?" he muttered as he reached far beneath the bottom bunk to retrieve a large shard of slate they had missed.

He was answered by a sharply frustrated exhalation. "This...ain't…workin'…," Newkirk grunted.

"Well it's going to have to work! Why can't I get it through that thick skull of yours that you need to keep quiet?" A different, yet just as annoyed voice sounded from the door as Wilson strode into the room. "You don't realize how serious this is Peter. It may seem minor but laryngitis can complicate into pneumonia if you're not careful. So do you see the importance of not speaking? Further stress upon the vocal chords could lead to something much more serious and life-threatening."

"Really?" asked Carter. "Gosh I didn't know it was that bad."

Wilson nodded. "It can be if he keeps talking and doesn't rest his voice."

"So he'll definitely need this," came Kinch's voice from the doorway. Wilson walked over and took the slate Kinch held out to him. He then walked back to hand it to Newkirk. "Here Peter. On direct orders from Colonel Hogan, as well as medical orders from me, use this or else!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 - Or Else What?**

"_Silence about a thing just magnifies it." - Tennessee Williams, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_

Newkirk grudgingly took the slate and immediately wrote, _Or else what?_

Wilson didn't miss a beat. "Or else I'll haul your butt over to the infirmary and bandage your mouth shut!"

Newkirk blinked in surprise; Wilson had never spoken to him in such an abrasive manner. He frowned and cocked his head to the side as he processed the medic's outburst.

Wilson sighed as his anger melted away as swiftly as it arose and he moved to sit on the stool beside the bunk. He reached out to put his hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "Listen Peter, I'm sorry. Try to look at it from my standpoint. It's just as frustrating for me as it is for you. I don't want to have to be the one to tell the Colonel that you're getting worse instead of better. Help me out here, will ya?"

_All right Joe. I'll try._

"That's all I'm asking. Now, how're you feeling?"

_Like hell._

"Understandable. Give me some details. How's your throat?"

_Still hurts bad._

"Open up, let me take a look." Wilson pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on as he checked Newkirk's throat. "Yep, still raw. Feels like you still have a bit of fever as well. What else is bothering you?"

_Headache. Can't concentrate. Nervous. Can't sleep._

Wilson nodded knowingly. "Uh huh. It's about time those symptoms kicked in."

Newkirk looked at him blankly.

"You haven't had a cigarette in nearly a day and a half. You've just begun the withdrawal process."

The Englishman slapped his hand against his forehead in frustration. _Oh Cor! Did 'e say __just__ begun?_

Wilson started to say something else but was interrupted when the Colonel opened the door and herded an obviously unwilling LeBeau into the room before him.

"Sorry for barging in guys, I need to talk to Carter."

Carter looked at his CO and said, "Sir?"

"I'm afraid your days as a waiter are over. Kinch and I have finally completed the planning for this upcoming mission and I need you down in the tunnel to prepare the explosives."

Carter at least had the grace not to look too terribly relieved as he glanced over at Newkirk. "Sorry buddy, you heard the Colonel." He looked back at Colonel Hogan. "So who…oh…," he trailed off embarrassedly as he suddenly realized what the Colonel had in mind.

Hogan gave LeBeau a gentle shove towards the bunk. "Remember our conversation Louis?"

"Oui mon Colonel," LeBeau muttered unhappily. He moved to stand beside the bunk and stared down at Newkirk for a moment. He sighed, "I am sorry Pierre. Shall we begin again?"

Newkirk hesitated before he caught the stern glare the Colonel sent his way and he bobbed his head slightly as he bent over the slate. _I'm sorry too Louis, bygones and all that. Just don't push it mate, okay?_

Wilson raised his eyebrows at the Englishman's last phrase but said nothing as LeBeau nodded in full understanding.

"André said you were hungry, n'est-ce pas?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes in his usual deprecating fashion and chalked _YES – VERY! My stomach thinks my throat's been cut!_

LeBeau chuckled, amused in spite of himself. "Very well. I will find something for your poor stomach."

Wilson stood up and took LeBeau by the arm as they both headed towards the door. "I need to discuss a few things with you Louis."

Colonel Hogan nodded approvingly to his English corporal as he too, headed out of the room with Carter in tow.

"I'll see you later Peter!" called Carter.

Newkirk grunted a reply and closed his eyes, trying to settle the dizziness he felt due to his lack of deep, restful sleep. _Where's the little Frenchman gotten off to?_ he groused to himself. He realized he should be ashamed of his treatment of LeBeau. After all, he was the only one of his circle of close friends who knew most of the truth about his recurring nightmare and he had kept it to himself all this time.

Yes, he decided he really owed LeBeau a more sincere apology than the one the Colonel shamed out of him. He found himself drifting off and forced his eyes open just in time to see his French friend enter the room bearing a tray of toast and tea. LeBeau set the tray atop the Colonel's desk in order to sweeten the mug of hot tea with a generous dollop of honey. "I am sorry I do not have more than this Pierre. I will make it up to you with dinner."

He turned to hand Newkirk two aspirin and a cup of water. "Joe asked me to give these to you."

Newkirk nodded gratefully and downed the pills along with all of the water.

LeBeau then picked the tray up and moved to set it in Newkirk's lap. Newkirk made sure LeBeau saw the slate first, _Ta little mate._

"You are welcome mon ami," smiled LeBeau. "Eat. I will be back in a few minutes."

Newkirk nodded and began to eat. He couldn't understand this sudden onset of continuous hunger and was increasingly puzzled by the periodic bouts of nausea. Was that part of being without his ciggies as well? Blimey, what a spot of bother this was turning out to be!

* * *

As the Colonel and Carter made their way down the ladder into the tunnel, they noticed something was definitely different below ground. Things got worse as they made their way to the radio room.

"It sure looks smoky down here Colonel! Are the lamps running out of oil?"

The Colonel sniffed the air before he replied, "Smells more like cigarette smoke to me Andrew."

Kinch was manning the radio, making the final arrangements with the Underground for the destruction of the Diebach ammo dump. Baker stood by, taking notes; he looked up as the two men approached.

Kinch signed off and Colonel Hogan stepped forward. "Everything on schedule Kinch?"

Kinch nodded, "Yes sir. All set!"

"Good. Now, what's up with all this smoke down here?"

Kinch glanced at Baker, who seemed to have suddenly found something extremely interesting on the floor.

"Well sir, the guys got tired of standing in the rain and they've been coming down to the emergency tunnel to smoke."

"I see," said the Colonel. He massaged his chin with his right hand as he spoke. "Well, we need to regulate this better because first, we've got to keep a safe distance between the smokers and Andrew's explosives, and second, we need to be able to breathe!"

"Yes sir," answered Kinch. "Richard and I will take care of it. We'll set up a rotating schedule."

"Thanks Colonel!" said Carter. "I sure don't need to worry about blowing any of the fellas up!"

"Andrew, you just worry about getting us the fireworks we need to get rid of that ammo depot and let me worry about the rest."

"Yes sir," nodded Carter as he headed for his lab.

* * *

Newkirk had just polished off his tea and toast when LeBeau came back in the room. This time he carried a bowl of hot water and a kettle. Newkirk looked at him questioningly.

"I have something to help your throat Pierre. Here, give me that tray." LeBeau set the bowl on the stool and the kettle on the floor beside the bunk before he took the tray.

_What is it Louis?_ wrote Newkirk.

"Do not concern yourself mon ami! It is only a warm compress that will make your throat feel better. Trust me."

_Don't have much choice do I?_

"No, you do not!" said LeBeau. He reached into the bowl, wrung out a cloth and nestled it securely around Newkirk's throat. It exuded a deeply herbal aroma which Newkirk found maddeningly familiar.

LeBeau recognized his friend's wary expression and said, "Yes, it is grand-mère's balm! It helped you before, remember?"

Newkirk wrote, _Yes I remember._ He decided to change the subject. _When is the mission?_

LeBeau replaced the rapidly cooling cloth with a fresh warm one and he answered as he tossed the first cloth back into the bowl. "I believe it is scheduled for tomorrow night."

_What's the target?_

"An ammunition depot near Diebach."

_Who's going?_

LeBeau had turned away for a moment to refresh the bowl with hot water from the kettle and Newkirk reached out to grab his sleeve. "What Pierre?"

_Who's going?_

LeBeau shrugged, "So many questions! Colonel Hogan, André and Kinch are going. You and I, of course, shall stay here."

Newkirk heaved a frustrated sigh before he dejectedly chalked three words.

_Don't like this._

"What mon ami? Being ill?"

Another sigh, then _Never mind_.

"I know what is bothering you Pierre. You do not like the fact that you will not be with them. You will not be able to protect them, oui?"

Annoyed at himself for being so transparent, Newkirk suddenly turned his face towards the wall. LeBeau reached to grasp his shoulder. "Thank you for worrying about us, mon ami. That is the sign of a good friend. Now lie down and try to get some rest. I will wake you when dinner is ready."

To the Frenchman's great surprise, Newkirk did just as he asked. Newkirk laid his slate aside and settled into the bunk, eyes already half-closed. He certainly wasn't going to admit to LeBeau that the herbal aroma of the compress had lulled him to sleep.

Fully aware of the situation, LeBeau laughed to himself and refreshed the warm compress once more before he quietly exited the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - ****I'm New at this Misery**

"_There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm." - Willa Cather_

He felt himself hurtling through the void again, surrounded by flame and explosions. At some unknown point, though, everything came to a stop and he stared transfixed at the scene unfolding in slow motion before his horrified eyes.

The flaming, shattered remnant of the Wellington's forward fuselage bobbled crazily beside him in a slow, flat spin. The bombs had long since spilled from the plane's belly and he couldn't avoid seeing several large objects completely engulfed by flame tumbling haphazardly from the open maw of the bomb bay. He suddenly realized what they were…oh God, the objects were…were bodies...the bodies of his crewmates! _No! No! No! Denis! Robert! Jack! Fred! Johnston! Oh mates…no...please, no…_! He could take no more of the hideous scene and became violently ill. He vomited and choked as he plunged helplessly earthward.

The images suddenly vanished and he bolted awake to find himself nauseated, shaking uncontrollably and soaked with perspiration. He dropped his head into his hands desperately seeking to calm himself and failed to hold back the tears that suddenly overwhelmed him. What was bloody wrong? He hadn't dreamt about this for so long and now here it's come back two days running!

What bothered him most was this night's recurrence of the most gut-wrenching of all the memories, where he saw his mates plummeting to their certain deaths, assuming that they weren't already mercifully dead as they fell out of the plane. What a horrible way to die! He buried his face in his pillow, hoping against hope that none of his mates, especially LeBeau, would walk in to find him in this state.

When LeBeau had awoken him from a deep, dreamless sleep the previous evening in order to eat dinner he had again been ravenous, as seemed to be his norm for now, and he made quick work of the meal LeBeau had prepared. The Frenchman had been true to his promise and had made sure his English friend had a hearty dinner.

Newkirk had anticipated getting a solid, uninterrupted night's rest after such a good meal, which he had gotten up to the point where the nightmare returned. As there were still several hours before dawn, he gave up on returning to sleep and concentrated on trying to return to a semblance of calm before anyone, especially LeBeau, found out.

Too soon, there came the knock on the door heralding LeBeau's arrival. "Pierre? Time to awaken mon ami! I have your breakfast!"

At first glance, LeBeau immediately realized that his English friend had spent another rough night and he bit his lip as he remembered his promise not to bring the subject of the nightmares up. He set the tray down and first went to help Newkirk with his morning ablutions.

"There mon ami!" LeBeau helped his friend sit up and then he brought the tray over.

Newkirk looked down at his breakfast and then stared at LeBeau in wide-eyed amazement. He reached for his slate. _How on earth did you manage this? And why?_

LeBeau chuckled at his friend's expression. "I called in a few favors mon ami. Joe explained to me that it is very important for you to be well nourished as you recover. He does not want what he called 'complications' for you."

Newkirk shook his head as he wrote out, _Ta Louis. I'm sorry for acting such a sod yesterday. I owe you mate._

"Yes you do," replied LeBeau matter-of-factly. "However, do not concern yourself with that now. Just get well, oui?"

Newkirk winked at his French friend before he dove into his tray of fresh coffee, scrambled egg, ham and fried potatoes.

* * *

When LeBeau returned sometime later to retrieve the tray, he wasn't surprised to see the dishes completely clean. "These will not need much washing, eh?"

Newkirk had been doing some serious thinking and he reached out to snag LeBeau's arm as he made to leave the room. "Yes, Pierre? Do you need anything else?"

Newkirk turned the slate towards LeBeau, who read the single, underlined word chalked onto it.

_Why?_

"Why what, mon ami?"

Newkirk gestured expansively at himself and the tray full of dishes, then turned his hands palms up to shrug in a silent question.

"Why do I take care of you the way I do?"

Newkirk nodded and wrote again, _Why do you put up with me? Kinch said I'm a pain._

LeBeau laughed, "And he is right!"

_Glad you agree!_

"It is obvious that someone has to take care of you. Left to yourself, you would more than likely be dead by now."

Newkirk automatically snorted without thinking and grunted at the resultant pain.

"Ah, but you know it is true Pierre. You push yourself beyond reason and do not want anyone to know when you need help. That is why I am here, because you need me."

Newkirk chuckled to himself and shook his head.

"No? You do not agree?"

The Englishman swiped the slate clean and wrote, _You didn't even like me when you first came here_.

"Oh ho, you remember that do you?"

_How could I forget? You hated me!_

LeBeau sighed, "Oui, mon ami, I am ashamed to admit that it is true. But, I hated all Englishmen then."

A strangled chuckle sounded over the screech of the chalk against the slate. _You did? I thought it was just me!_

"No, mon ami," laughed LeBeau. "As you were the only Englishman in the barracks at that time, I focused all of my hatred on you. I am sorry Pierre."

Newkirk well remembered his first encounters with the fiery Frenchman. _What changed your mind?_

LeBeau remained silent as he searched for an answer to Newkirk's question.

"I decided that I had been sent here specifically to take care of you Pierre. I finally realized that you needed help and that you would not have survived without me."

_Cheeky monkey!_ The jibe echoed half-heartedly in Newkirk's mind as he knew that Louis' words were true.

When he first met LeBeau, he had been suffering mightily from the nightmare visions of his bomber's destruction, not unlike now. And the Frenchman was right, at the beginning he had treated Newkirk with undisguised hatred at worst and purposeful disdain at best. Newkirk always wondered what had caused LeBeau to revise his opinion of him but he privately thanked his lucky stars that he had. He more than likely would have died had he not fallen into friendship with the diminutive Frenchman.

LeBeau laughed at his English friend's mock insult. "Let me take this tray to the sink mon ami. I will return in a moment."

Newkirk nodded and settled back into the bunk after LeBeau left. He was so sleepy his head felt like it was stuffed with wadding; it certainly didn't help that the headache still lurked in the background. He tried closing his eyes but gave it up as a bad job when LeBeau came back into the room.

"You have the right idea mon ami. I can tell you did not rest well last night," LeBeau remarked as he entered with the bowl and kettle in hand. Newkirk didn't complain; he desperately needed as much undisturbed sleep as he could get so he actually welcomed the Frenchman's herbal compresses.

LeBeau nodded his approval when Newkirk finally dozed off. He decided to let his English friend sleep for as long as possible and quietly left the room.

* * *

_A/N: The names I've cited for Newkirk's crewmates are those of an actual crew that was lost when No. 103 Squadron RAF Vickers Wellington Mk.1C, S/N W5656 crashed at Chateau Ledquent, Marquise, 15 km SW of Calais, France, reason unknown on 6 August 1941. Since for the purpose of this story Newkirk was the rear air gunner and the sole survivor of his crew, I therefore only named five (Wellington Mk.1Cs usually carried a crew of six)._

_W5656's crew were __Pilot__: Sergeant Denis Maxwell Greey, RAFVR, Age 28, Killed; __Navigator__: Sergeant Johnston Playfair Taylor, RCAF, Age 25, Killed; __Flight Engineer__: Sergeant Jack Moules, RAFVR, Age ?, Killed; __Wireless Operator/Air Gunner__: Sergeant Frederick William Alleway, RAFVR, Age 21, Killed; __Wireless Operator/Air Gunner__: Sergeant Robert Grattan Griffin, RAFVR, Age 21, Killed; __Air Gunner__: Sergeant Carl Deges, RAFVR, Age?, Killed._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – I Never Knew**

_"To be silent oft is to learn." - Edward Counsel, Maxims_

Newkirk slept deeply throughout the entire rest of that day, thankfully without a hint of the nightmares. LeBeau decided that rest was more important than food and so did not awaken his English friend in order to eat. Despite this consideration, the horror in mid-air again invaded his sleep by early evening. This time as before, he recognized the horribly contorted faces within the flames as those of his lost Wimpey's crewmates. _Oh God mates! I'm so sorry, so very sorry. Why couldn't it have been me instead? So sorry I couldn't help you..._

Then, as he helplessly stared at them flailing about in unbearable, excruciating agony, three of the faces suddenly morphed into those of Kinch, Andrew and the Colonel.

"OH GOD NO!" His agonizingly hoarse scream brought LeBeau running into the room.

"Pierre! What is wrong? Keep quiet, mon ami, you are hurting yourself!" The Frenchman flung himself to his knees beside the bunk, frantically trying to calm his nearly hysterical friend. "Shhh, quiet…please calm down!"

It took many long minutes for Newkirk to fully awaken and he scrabbled desperately to find his slate. He found it and frantically wrote, _Where are they? Out in the rain? Are they back? Are they safe?_

"No Pierre, they are not back. They will not be back for some time yet. Do not worry about the weather; the rain stopped a few hours ago while you slept. Please, please calm down! What has frightened you so?"

The Englishman struggled to bring his breathing under control as he chalked a desperate plea: _I need a ciggie - please Louis!_

LeBeau shook his head as he reached to grasp Newkirk by the shoulder. "I am sorry mon ami. You know you cannot smoke right now." The Frenchman leaned in to examine Newkirk closely; the Englishman's hands were trembling and he was perspiring heavily. Wilson had earlier explained the symptoms Newkirk would experience due to nicotine withdrawal. This, coupled with the nightmares and the stress of his worry over their other friends drove him into an even worse mental and physical state.

LeBeau cast about desperately for something to distract his English friend's mind and came up empty. He then remembered that he had just finished preparing a fresh pot of coffee in preparation for the team's return from the mission when he heard Newkirk cry out. Since Newkirk could not smoke right now, coffee would be the next best thing to steady his broken nerves.

"One moment, Pierre," he said. "I will be right back."

He returned with a mug of fresh, hot coffee and handed it to Newkirk, who accepted it gratefully. LeBeau stood by and waited patiently as Newkirk tried to calm himself whilst he sipped the coffee. Despite his promise not to 'push it', he decided that it would more than likely help if he could get Newkirk to talk about what was causing him such agony.

LeBeau decided to beard the lion in his den and moved to sit down on the side of the bunk at Newkirk's feet. He gestured at the slate as he said, "You must tell me what has caused you to become so upset. Please do not deny it mon ami, for it is quite plain to me that you are having the dreams again. You must talk about it like we did before, remember?"

Finally lacking the will to refute LeBeau's words, Newkirk nodded. Even though he couldn't deny the fact that he again suffered from the nightmares, he really didn't want to reveal the details to anyone, even Louis. But there seemed to be no way out of it. He certainly couldn't continue this way; he felt that the nightmares would eventually drive him mad if he didn't get some relief.

"I do not understand what has caused you to become so upset. Why have the dreams come back? Are they the same or different this time? Did we not go through this before?"

Newkirk half-shrugged at his French friend's questions. He had no idea why the nightmares had returned this time. LeBeau, however, was right; the two of them had gone through this before. Sometime after they had first met, it had been the constant nightmares that had (incongruously enough in Newkirk's opinion) been the thing that finally drew he and Louis onto the path to friendship. He swiped the slate clean to answer LeBeau's last question.

_You don't know the whole story, Louis._

"Then tell me the whole story, mon ami," Louis calmly replied. "I remember before that you had terrible dreams of your plane being shot down. You were the only one to survive, oui?"

Newkirk nodded sadly.

LeBeau leaned in a bit and said, "Please mon ami, you must tell me why you are in such distress."

Newkirk took a deep breath. He honestly didn't know how to respond by writing but reckoned it was much better than having to speak about the horror he had witnessed. He decided to be as brief and concise as possible. He began writing, halting frequently to regain his composure, telling LeBeau how he had been blown out of the tail section when his plane was cut in half by ack-ack and how he regained consciousness tumbling wildly amidst the explosions. He stopped and covered his eyes with his right hand, seeking to stem the tears that were threatening to flow.

LeBeau gently grasped his shoulder to encourage him to continue. Newkirk took another deep breath before he shakily wrote, _It gets worse Louis, much worse._

"Please go ahead when you are ready. You simply must purge yourself of this to get better, mon ami."

_I don't want to remember._

"I know, Pierre. But unless you release them, these memories will continue to come unbidden. Trust me mon ami."

_Give me a few minutes._

Newkirk closed his eyes and began breathing fast and hard as he deliberately summoned up the horrifying memory of his crewmates plunging in flames from the shattered fuselage of their plane. He clutched the slate and began writing.

LeBeau's breath caught in his throat as he read what his English friend wrote. "Oh Pierre...I am so sorry. I had no idea...oh mon ami! How terrible!"

Newkirk swiped the slate clean in order to write a bit more and finally complete his gruesome recitation. He made sure, however, not to make any mention of his vision of the Colonel, Kinch and Carter suffering the same horrible, agonizing death as his crewmates. He dropped the slate onto his lap and collapsed back onto his pillow, completely drained.

LeBeau sat in stunned silence after reading his English friend's words. He finally found his voice and spoke very softly, "Pierre, I fully understand now why you acted the way you did when I first met you. I am so sorry mon ami, I never knew."

Newkirk nodded slightly. He reached for the slate again and wrote, _How could you know? I never told you. _He swiped the slate clean and then wrote, _But_ w_hy wasn't it me instead of them? No one would've missed me._

"Au contraire, mon ami. Mavis would have mourned you greatly."

_Yes, I suppose my Mave would've missed me. But Fred was engaged! Denis and his wife had a baby! Jack was his mum's only support!_

LeBeau sighed, "C'est la guerre, mon ami. I do not know why you were the only survivor. It was just the way it happened. There is no rhyme or reason. Let me tell you this Pierre, it is not your fault. Do you hear me?"

_That's not how it feels._

LeBeau reached to grasp Newkirk's shoulder again as the Englishman's dejection touched a responsive chord in him, one that he thought he had successfully buried away long ago. He too felt guilt; guilt at how he had treated Newkirk when they first met, as well as the same guilt that led to his hatred of all Englishmen back then. He shook himself out of his reverie and looked down at an obviously exhausted Newkirk.

"Try to get some more sleep Pierre."

Newkirk shook his head and wrote, _Can't sleep._

_Until the others return_, finished LeBeau mentally. He suddenly remembered that Newkirk had not eaten all day and he asked, "Are you hungry mon ami?"

Newkirk smiled wanly as he wrote _A mite peckish, yes._

LeBeau patted his English friend on the shoulder and stood up. "I will bring you something to eat and we will wait together, oui?"

_Thank you Louis._

"You are most welcome Pierre. I will be right back."

Newkirk shook his head after LeBeau left. _Sometimes I think that little Frenchman knows me too well,_ he mused. Somehow it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would; on the contrary, it felt rather more of a comfort. And LeBeau had been right. He already felt just a little bit lighter after his 'conversation' with his French friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 - The Memory of Sorrow**

"_The price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings." - Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four_

LeBeau returned a few minutes later with a bowl of ragout he had put aside during dinner. Newkirk sniffed the air appreciatively as LeBeau approached.

"I hope you enjoy it. I made it especially for everyone tonight…," LeBeau trailed off, not wanting to upset Newkirk with any further worries about the team. Newkirk knew as well as he did that he always prepared a heartier than usual meal on a mission night.

The Englishman nodded and eagerly took the bowl. Contrary to his earlier statement, he was absolutely famished. In between bites, he chalked out, _Don't you dare tell anyone I said this was good._

"Your secret is safe with me Pierre!" laughed LeBeau.

It didn't take very long for Newkirk to finish his food. He handed the empty bowl to his French friend and wrote, _You're almost as good a cook as my Mave._

"I will take that as high praise coming from you," replied LeBeau. He slid the bowl on the floor, settled onto the stool beside the bunk, and waited for his English friend to take the initiative. He didn't have long to wait, as Newkirk began writing again without any prompting.

_Jack's mum was a wonderful cook._

LeBeau sighed to himself, greatly relieved that Newkirk wasn't retreating back into himself. As it was vital that he release his grief over his lost crewmates, LeBeau gently encouraged him to continue.

"What did she cook for you mon ami?"

Newkirk thought for a moment before he wrote, _Rissoles, sausage stovies, cottage pie, potato cakes, why once she made a joint of beef with Yorkshire pudding! Don't know how she managed that. We ate sandwiches off that for a week afterwards!_

It all sounded impossibly heavy to LeBeau's culinary sensibilities but he instead commented, "You and he were close friends, oui?"

Newkirk nodded and paused wistfully to erase the slate. _Jack was the flight engineer._ _Andrew reminds me of him – just a simple kid who loved his mum._

LeBeau nodded as well, amazed that his normally reticent friend was freely revealing such deeply personal memories. He posed an obvious question designed to keep Newkirk focused. "Were you close to the others as well?"

Newkirk nodded again, fully aware of LeBeau's strategy to keep him reminiscing about his lost friends. _We were a crew, Louis. We were all close._

LeBeau smiled at Newkirk. "Ah, of course you were, mon ami." He then sat back and for the most part just quietly 'listened' as Newkirk poured out recollections of his RAF crewmates.

The Englishman did not need any further prompting; for once he began, the memories cascaded out of their own volition, as if an irresistible torrent. Newkirk wrote how they used to mercilessly rib Johnston, the lone RCAF airman in their crew, simply because he was Canadian; how they had all piled onto Fred in a congratulatory scrum when he shyly revealed he had popped the question to his girl; how they had all snuck off base without leave to purchase a suitable present for Denis' newborn son; how they all made sure Robert got properly bladdered upon turning 21.

Then suddenly, it was enough. Newkirk dropped the slate, leaned back upon his pillow and closed his eyes as the tears escaped to track down his face. LeBeau cleared his throat, grabbed the empty bowl and headed towards the door. He called over his shoulder, "I will return in a few minutes, mon ami."

Newkirk bit his lip as he sought to control his emotions, grateful for LeBeau's discretion.

* * *

True to his word, LeBeau returned after first checking to see that Newkirk had indeed regained his composure. He brought a fresh cup of coffee for his English friend. "Here Pierre. You need this."

The Englishman took the mug and then sighed as he reached for the slate. _Louis,_ _I don't want anyone else to know about this._

LeBeau understood completely and said, "Oui, je comprends. Have I not told anyone up until now?"

_I know you haven't mate, thanks for that. I just don't want them to worry, you know?_

"I know Pierre. Let me take care of worrying about you."

Newkirk rolled his eyes as he swiped the slate clean and wrote, _Any word?_

LeBeau shook his head. "No, they are not back yet. It should not be much longer. Richard promised to send someone to tell us when they return."

Newkirk sipped his coffee as LeBeau again parked himself on the stool. The Frenchman rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, "Pierre, I never told you why I treated you so badly when I first came here."

_I still wonder about that. Didn't know if I should ever ask._

LeBeau looked down. "I will tell you the reason, mon ami. I do not wish to excuse my behavior, I merely want to explain my...state of mind at the time."

Newkirk smiled and nodded slightly, silently encouraging his French friend to continue.

"As you well recall, I was very angry. I was angry at what had happened to my country and I was angry at being captured. And I was angry with the British." LeBeau paused and shook his head sadly. "No, it was more than anger; it was hate. I hated the British! All of them!"

_Especially me._

LeBeau chuckled half-heartedly. "Yes, I am ashamed to admit that I focused all of my anger and hatred on you Pierre, not realizing that you were dealing with your very profound feelings for your crewmates. I now know the true depth of your grief and I am so very sorry."

_Ta mate._

LeBeau wiped his eyes. "I beg your pardon, mon ami, the emotion has come back to me as well. I thought I had come to terms with this but perhaps I had simply fooled myself."

Newkirk reached out to grasp LeBeau's forearm sympathetically. The Frenchman smiled and patted his friend's hand. "Merci. I will be all right in a moment."

Newkirk waited patiently whilst his French friend collected himself. LeBeau finally spoke when he had his emotions back under control. "I do not know how to tell you this Pierre. It had nothing to do with you. It was something the British Navy did, on Winston Churchill's orders."

Newkirk cocked his head to listen very closely as LeBeau continued.

"I hated the British because my cousin Pierre Cann was killed when the Bretagne exploded and capsized. He was only one of the nearly 1,300 French sailors killed when the British Navy attacked the French fleet at Mers el Kébir."

Newkirk, eyes wide with shock, stared at LeBeau. His mouth dropped open and he shook his head in disbelief. He thought to himself, _The British Navy? Why would we shell the French Fleet?_

"You did not know of this mon ami? How could you not know?"

Newkirk mouthed a silent 'no'. How could he not know? He had been preoccupied at the time with trying to survive his squadron's nightly missions, bombing raids over France and Germany. He didn't recall hearing anything about this incident and simply couldn't comprehend what LeBeau had told him. He reached for the slate and wrote, _When did this happen?_

"I believe it was in early July 1940."

_And your cousin's name was the same as..._

LeBeau cut Newkirk off before he finished writing. "Oui, the same as yours. Every time I saw you I was reminded of him."

_Oh Louis. That had to be hard for you._

"It was very difficult, made even more so by the fact that I was the one who convinced him to join the Navy." LeBeau paused to sigh heavily. "He shared more than just your name mon ami, for you and he were very alike in some ways."

Newkirk frowned, a bit confused by LeBeau's words.

"Yes, he was always in trouble that one; it was for small things such as public drunkenness, petty theft, pickpocketing. The local police and he were on a first-name basis. My mother's family were at a loss as to what to do about him."

LeBeau paused briefly to gauge the effect of his words on Newkirk, who remained motionless. It certainly was not his intent to offend his English friend with his observation about his cousin; however, it was true, Newkirk reminded him of his cousin Pierre in more ways than one.

"As Pierre seemed to respect me more so than anyone else in the family, my uncle begged me to speak with him, to try to present a solution for him. Unfortunately for him, I agreed to do so; thus I was the one who informed him that the family wished him to change for the better and I strongly encouraged him to join the Navy."

Newkirk finally stirred and wrote, _How could you have known what would happen Louis? It's not your fault!_

"As you said earlier, it does not feel that way. Yet, it does not excuse how I treated you. I should never have blamed you for the actions of your government. I am sorry it took me so long to change my mind about you."

_What made you change your mind?_

"I changed my mind the day you walked heedlessly towards the wire, mon ami."

Newkirk closed his eyes and shivered; he remembered that day as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He had only been at Stalag 13 for a few months and had thought he had finally laid the images of his plane's fiery destruction to rest when the dreams began assailing him nonstop. He had gotten perhaps six hours of sleep in as many days and had been hurting badly with no idea how to stop the pain. He no longer cared whether he lived or died. He had spent the entire morning of that day wandering aimlessly about the compound, unsuccessfully trying to erase the ghastly images from his mind.

He suddenly stopped in the middle of the compound and stared at the fence. Freedom lay just outside the wire. Freedom from imprisonment. Freedom from the torment from without. Freedom from the relentless torment within. He began walking again, his eyes fixed on the forest outside the wire.

LeBeau had been sitting on the bench in front of the barracks and he stared in shock as Newkirk shuffled mindlessly towards the dead-wire. He heard the metallic snap of a machine gun being cocked and looked up to see the guard in the tower sighting his weapon on the blue-clad figure. No matter what his feelings were against the British, he hated the Germans even more; he simply could not let this happen. He ran like a madman towards Newkirk and leapt to tackle the RAF Corporal to the ground. Newkirk began to fight him, squirming and twisting in an effort to escape LeBeau's grip. The Frenchman tightened his hold on the Englishman's legs and clung onto him tightly.

"Damn you Frenchy, let me go!" cried Newkirk. "What do you care? You hate me, remember?"

LeBeau gritted his teeth and held on. "I will not stand by and let you kill yourself at the hands of the Boche!"

Newkirk failed to free himself from the tenacious Frenchman by the time the guards ran up with weapons ready and shouted at them to get to their feet. The two were then hauled to stand in front of the Kommandant, who sentenced them both to 30 days in the cooler for fighting, despite LeBeau's vociferous denials.

The time spent in the cooler proved to be a mixed blessing, as it was then that the two of them finally talked and came to the understanding that began their unlikely friendship.

LeBeau continued, "When I saw that you were deliberately walking towards the wire, I suddenly realized that you were hurting just as badly if not more so than I. Of course, at the time I did not know to what degree you suffered as I do now. And when we finally talked whilst in the cooler, I knew I had been very wrong in my attitude."

Newkirk opened his eyes to gaze sadly at LeBeau. He really couldn't blame his French friend for feeling the way he did back then. He knew that what happened to LeBeau's cousin wasn't his fault but he felt compelled to apologize just by the very fact that he was British and it was his government that had ordered the massacre.

_I'm really sorry about your cousin and the rest of the French sailors mate._

"You had nothing to do with it Pierre but I thank you."

There was a quick knock on the door and Goldman stuck his head in to say, "Baker said to tell you guys that they're back!"

* * *

_A/N - The Attack on Mers-el-Kébir, part of Operation Catapult and also known as the Battle of Mers-el-Kébir, was a British Navy bombardment of the French Navy at its base at Mers-el-Kébir on the coast of what was then French Algeria on 3 July 1940. A British naval task force attacked the French fleet, which was at anchor and not expecting an assault from the United Kingdom, France's former ally. The attack resulted in the deaths of 1,297 French servicemen, the sinking of a battleship and the damaging of five other ships. France and the United Kingdom were not at war but France had surrendered to Germany, and the UK feared the French fleet would end up as a part of the German Navy, a fate that would greatly increase the Kriegsmarine's size and combat ability. Although French Admiral François Darlan had assured Winston Churchill the fleet would not fall into German possession, the British acted upon the assumption that Darlan's promises were insufficient guarantees. The attack remains controversial to this day, and created much rancour between the United Kingdom and France, but it also demonstrated to the world and to the United States in particular, Britain's commitment to continue the war with Germany at all costs and without allies if need be. (courtesy of Wikipedia)_

_In the same vein as Newkirk's crewmates, the name I have given for LeBeau's cousin Pierre Cann is the name of an actual sailor who went down with the battleship Bretagne. He was a mechanic aboard the Bretagne with the rank of Petty Officer. I do not mean to cast aspersions on the real sailor's character; LeBeau's description of his similarity to Newkirk is completely from my imagination. The majority of the 1,297 men who were lost at Mers-el- Kébir were killed when the Bretagne took a direct hit in the ammunition magazine and capsized. More information may be found at www dot ledrame-merselkebir dot fr and www dot mers-el-kebir dot net. A comprehensive account of the action may also be found at www dot hmshood dot org dot uk._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale**

"_After a storm comes a calm." - Matthew Henry_

"Merci!" called LeBeau as he jumped off the stool. "Did you hear that Pierre? They are back! I must reheat the coffee!" He grabbed Newkirk's empty mug up from the floor and paused to observe his friend's reaction to Goldman's long-awaited message.

Newkirk's sigh of relief ended up as a tremendous yawn and LeBeau chuckled at the sight, pleased that he was so obviously drowsy. It had been a very long, yet very productive night for both of them. The Frenchman felt that an onerous burden had suddenly been lifted from off his shoulders and he hoped that the same held true for his English friend.

_Could I see them?_

"Why not, mon ami?" smiled LeBeau. "I am sure they wish to see you as well."

Almost as if on cue, there came another knock at the door; LeBeau rushed to open it and Colonel Hogan, Kinch and Carter walked in.

"How's our not so patient, Louis?" asked Kinch.

"He is well, but sleepy," answered LeBeau cheerfully.

Newkirk shook his head in mock irritation as he wrote, _Play nice Kinch!_

"Look who's talking, our resident expert in slate shattering! I'm going to keep you in mind for the next roofing detail!" said Kinch. He moved over to the bunk and gently tapped Newkirk on the back as the Englishman flipped the slate around for Carter's view.

_Care for a few rounds of gin tomorrow Andrew?_

"Sure buddy! Uh, I won't need to bring another slate up from the tunnel will I?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes as he showed them all what he had written in reply to Carter's question. _You're a twit, Andrew!_

The Colonel had been standing back by the door quietly observing his men's interaction and he now moved to sit on the stool beside the bunk. "I just wanted Peter and Louis to know that the Krauts have one less ammo depot tonight."

Carter jumped in, gesticulating wildly as he spoke, "Yeah you should've seen it guys! It was great! KABOOM-BOOM-KABOOM! Scratch one ammo depot in Diebach!"

Colonel Hogan shook his head and chuckled at his munitions expert's enthusiasm. "Never lose your passion, Andrew!"

_That's just what we need – a passionate twit!_

They all laughed at that, even Carter. A moment of quiet then passed, after which everyone noticed Newkirk unsuccessfully trying to suppress another yawn.

LeBeau moved in to shoo everyone out of the room. "Come mes amis! We have all had a very long, tiring night. Let us get to sleep!"

He returned to make a final check on his English friend and found him already dropping off to sleep. The Frenchman fussed with the blankets, tucking them in more securely around Newkirk. "I hope and pray you sleep well tonight, mon ami," he murmured as he finished. He stood looking at the sleeping Englishman for a moment and then turned the light off before he left.

As LeBeau entered the common room, the Colonel stood at the stove pouring himself a cup of coffee. He gestured to LeBeau and pulled him aside with his arm draped over the Frenchman's shoulder. "Louis, there seems to be something different about Peter that I just can't put my finger on. Is there anything I need to know?"

LeBeau looked his CO directly in the eye as he replied, "No Colonel, there is not. Trust me, Pierre is fine." He looked down and spoke as if to himself, "Yes, he is just fine."

Hogan acquiesced, not quite fully convinced that he had the whole story, yet willing to leave the matter alone. "I'll take your word for it then. Thanks for taking such good care of him while we were gone!"

"Merci, it is a task for which I was born!"

Hogan looked closer at his French Corporal, who appeared to be completely serious. He nodded and moved to sit down at the common table whilst he finished his coffee.

* * *

Newkirk had fallen deeply asleep almost instantly and immediately felt himself immersed within another dream; however this time was quite unlike the previous ones. He found himself seated in front of the large picture window of the Red Lion, he and his mates' favorite pub in Houghton. He always felt at home here, since his favorite London pub went by the very same name. He glanced about curiously, wondering why he was here alone, as he never came here alone; he was always here with his mates and the rest of the mob from the base. He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and there they were, all of them - Jack, Denis, Robert, Johnston and Fred. They were gathered outside, standing on the pavement fronting the window, all of them dressed in full flight gear. He couldn't believe his eyes and rubbed them so hard they actually hurt. As he stared at them in shocked disbelief, each one of them raised a hand in reluctant farewell. They stood together gazing fondly at him for a seemingly eternal moment and then shouldered their kits. They all then turned to leave except for Jack, who lingered a bit behind the others and gave him a wistful smile along with his characteristic 'thumbs up' before he too had to turn away.

He sprang to his feet and pounded his fists against the window as he cried out to them to stop, to come back, to wait for him. _Mates…don't go…please…wait for me…wait for me! _He shouted himself hoarse but it was to no avail. It was as if they simply could not hear him and they continued to walk on until they disappeared into the swirling mists of the evening river fog. He dropped his forehead in despair against the cold, hard glass of the window as the tears flowed once again. He stood there unmoving for quite some time when he heard the unmistakable rumble of two Bristol Pegasus engines on run-up. He pressed his face closer to the window, desperately searching the fog for any hint of his mates or their plane, yet he saw nothing. He knew every whine and moan of those engines by heart and could tell by the increasing revolutions they were approaching the moment of takeoff and beyond. The roar of the engines grew even louder as their Wimpey, his Wimpey, call sign "F for Freddie", nickname "Mave's Boys", beat up the pub. _Good on ya Denis!_ he thought as the entire building shuddered in response. He strained to listen as the comforting drone gradually and inexorably faded away into the distance until at the last nothing but silence remained. _Godspeed and my very best to you, mates…I'll never forget any of you._ He remained standing at the window, his face resting against the glass, until his knees finally buckled beneath him and he remembered no more.

* * *

_A/N – Chapter title translates as "and forever, brother, hail and farewell"; a line from Catullus 101 (Brotherly Tears by Gaius Valerius Catullus, c. 84-c. 54 B.C., translation below by A.Z. Foreman):_

_Driven through many a nation, out over many an ocean,_

_I am now here for these last rites of passing,_

_To offer you, dead brother, the last gifts of the living,_

_To speak in vain at your unspeaking ash_

_Since bitter fortune barred me, stole you to a shadow,_

_Poor brother taken, cruelly taken, from me._

_But now to celebrate grief in custom of our fathers_

_I bring small foods to you who starve below,_

_Small gifts damp with a brother's tears. Take them and this_

_Into eternity: hail and farewell._


End file.
